For Sherlock Holmes
by likeateddybear
Summary: FLUFF.


AN: I'm stressed from school, so I needed to write some fluff. Sorry about not updating, I assure you that I completely intend on finishing all of my WIPs. Here you go~

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Slumped over on the couch. Undignified, not in the least bit graceful, and making awful moping noises to grab the attention of his flatmate.

This is how one Sherlock Holmes could be found on this dreary, rainy, even temperature day.

Every so often, he would curl himself up into a ball and resist the whimpering noises that attempted to crawl up his throat and escape through his tightly sealed lips. He would hold his legs tighter to his chest and force those noises into grumbles instead, for it was better, in his mind, that he make John believe he was angry, rather than admit he was legitimately depressed.

John, however, has been known to be able to read people- Okay, well, people he bothers to read. He can't read most of his girlfriends, but that's usually because he secretly agrees with Sherlock on the "BORING, DULL, UGH" factor of the relationship. John can read Sherlock, and what he was reading wasn't promising. Not even a bit. Sherlock, in his angry, grumpy moods, was usually torturing his violin, usually pacing around – attempting to find something to do, something – anything – to cure his annoyance and boredom. Unfortunately, Sherlock's depression seemed to have overlooked this, as he had been on the couch, between stretched out and curled up making strangled sounding grumble noises, since around ten that morning.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock started a bit; John never usually bothered him when he was in a grumpy mood. Shit, he knew. Well, might as well pretend as if he DOESN'T know. Maybe John will fall for THAT.

In any case, (or lack thereof, really,) Sherlock did not reply to John. He felt a dip in the couch and buried his face in his knees, boney or not – hey, he was used to them, they're his own knees, you know!

"Sherlock," John said in a voice that sounded just as worried as Sherlock had hoped he wouldn't hear on that day. He felt a small weight on his arm as the couch dipped further and knew John has leaned forward. Sherlock was less aware than John that he was completely frozen; hardly even breathing.

Sherlock gave off an odd, strangled sounding grunt.

"You alright?" John asked, his hand squeezing a bit and the couch dipping more – geeze, John had to be leaning completely over him, at this point. Sherlock could feel his body heat, feel the weight on his arm, feel the dip in the couch, and, in the front of his mind, Sherlock wished John away. He wished him to go far away and leave him to mope on his own, by himself, with no one around to witness it.

Not so deep down, however, Sherlock wanted to whine. He wanted to complain, to whine, to whimper, maybe even to cry – and he wanted John to listen and hold him. The problem was – well, that there was no problem at all, really! Sherlock wasn't upset for any real reason, and this wasn't a common thing for him (John would probably blame the eating and sleeping habits), but Sherlock wanted to vent. He wanted to vent, he wanted to scream as loudly as he could to get the frustration out, he wanted to let those whimpers escape and let John kiss the pain away-

Kiss? Oh, yes, please. Kiss. Sherlock wanted to try kissing John. They had a bit of a stale-mate game going on, but it really wasn't about sex, it was about emotion. Sherlock was no good with emotion, and John was no good with anything but claiming he wasn't gay, apparently (Sherlock rolled his eyes as he thought this, his face still shoved against his knee caps).

So, not deep past the need to complain and be held was a longing to be kissed, caressed, and generally cared for just a bit deeper than John already cared. Sherlock knew John was capable, he had yet to prove himself, however, and Sherlock just- he just wanted to whimper, he wanted to whine, whimper, complain, and have John kiss the whimpers right out of his mouth, to shush him, to stroke his arms and cheeks – he wanted John to be closer than they had been, because Sherlock could find no reason for wanting to whimper and whimper and-

While thinking of this, Sherlock's lips happened to loosen enough to let out a whimper – Sherlock wasn't fully aware of this until there was a nearly silent gasp and sudden movement from John's side of the couch. Soon, Sherlock was very aware that there were arms wrapped around him. John's arms. John's head was facing away from Sherlock, resting on his left arm as his right hand stroked Sherlock's back.

Sherlock was still. So very, very still.

"Sherlock, please tell me when you're not okay," John muttered into his arm.

"Why?" Sherlock managed, his voice cracking on the way out. John held him tighter, no matter how awkward it must have been for him, no matter how tired his legs may have been from the weird position, as well.

"Because I love you, Sherlock, and I know what you look like when you're grumpy. You can pretend all you want, but I'm not going to let you sit here and be… sad."

"I'm just bored-"

"No, you're not. Clearly not," John sighed.

"No, I'm not," Sherlock agreed quietly. John gave another sigh, this one of relief, though very slight.

"Sit up," John commanded, letting go. Sherlock immediately sat up, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast. John's right hand moved forward and cupped Sherlock's left cheek, pulls his face toward him. "You're wonderful. I don't know what's wrong, but you're utterly brilliant and, I swear, you're the most amazing… anything that I have ever been in contact with. I'm extremely lucky, you know that?"

"Lucky?" Sherlock attempted to sneer with a raised eyebrow – but it came out more of a miserable drone with his eyes staring at John's wrist instead of scathing.

"Of course I am. I not only had the fantastic pleasure of seeing you work – seeing you in your element – but I had the chance, even, at becoming your friend. That seems extremely lucky to me, as I really haven't seen you let anyone else in since I've met you."

Sherlock looked up at John and couldn't help that he looked like a lost puppy. John made an odd choking noise and cleared his throat, smiling at Sherlock.

"What can I do to make you feel better?" John asked gently, his other hand coming up to cup Sherlock's face as his thumb stroked absently. Sherlock stared at John, lost, for quite a while. He seemed to be having an idiotic inner war with himself – should he tell John and risk being thought of as human, god forbid? Or should he shove him away and maybe never have this chance again? It really wasn't much of a question; it was more Sherlock attempting to overcome his pride for a short reply.

"Would it be too much to ask…" Sherlock closed his mouth and furrowed his eyebrows, looking down at John's wrists again. He took a breath and looked back up at John's waiting face. "A… kiss?"

John's smile in reply to this was a very warm one. It made Sherlock feel sick – he couldn't tell if it was better or worse than how he had been feeling previously. However, he smiled back after a moment or two.

"It's not even close to too much to ask, Sherlock, to be completely honest with you," John murmured as he leaned forward with that same heart-stopping smile of his. He pressed their lips together after his eyes fell closed, and Sherlock was ashamed to say he couldn't fight his eyes closing as well. John's lips were soft, but pressing firm. Unmoving, but warm and inviting. It felt far more intimate than Sherlock had ever expected it to, but perhaps that had something to do with John's hand on his face, the situation itself, and the warmth spreading through Sherlock's chest as John sighed into the nearly chaste kiss.

Sherlock pulled away after a moment – far too soon, in Sherlock's opinion – and John was confused when Sherlock pushed him down onto the couch. Sherlock lowered himself on top of John and put his arms on either side of him, nuzzling into his chest as he took a deep breath, breathing in John's cologne, and relaxing completely against him. John relaxed after another second and his hand stroked Sherlock's hair as he kissed the top of his head a few times a minute.

The flat was still, the clock was ticking, the night was silent but for small noises of London. The lamp made a small humming noise that seemed to fill the flat with warmth along with the clock and the clicking of the heater – all of the noises of London, 221B, and John's breathing created the most peaceful music Sherlock had ever hoped to hear in his lifetime.

And they fell asleep there, on the couch. Sherlock's arm may have fallen asleep along with John's leg, and they may have woken up a tad sore, stuck to the leather of the couch, but neither of them regretted it for a second. Nothing about how they acted around each other was abnormal from that second on – much to Sherlock's disappointment – but he learned to cope, as it came with lovely things such as warm hands, gentle kisses, and hearing those deep sighs Sherlock learned by heart – especially considering he was the only one that could bring them out of John – and all it took was a small, nearly chaste, unexpected kiss from the lips of one Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
